Of Scythe and Psyche
by Matarsak
Summary: There is only one way to kill the Batman and Crane knows what it is. It's all about monsters. *Wayne/Crane but there is nothing beautiful about it.
1. Prologue

Notes: This is not going to be a first person narrative. Only the prologue is.

* * *

Prologue:

In which Crane has a reoccurring nightmare.

* * *

The first time he looked at me, I looked away.

The second time, I looked away.

The third time was the last time I dared to look away.

He has a way of knowing what hurts me the most, and he is not reserved in the slightest to hurt me where it hurts the most.

And he hurt me the third time, and he will hurt me again if I look away, but sometimes I wonder if there is anything left in the world capable of hurting me, but I do not look away, because _It's not that I'm afraid of being hurt again: Nothing again can either hurt or heal_ ; It's his eyes; it's in the way he looks at me that renders me incapable of looking away. He meets my eyes across a field of boiling blood and frothing flesh, he grabs me by the hair and drags me facedown along a road littered with jarred pieces of misunderstood desire and half-choked insanity that rip my skin open and sink into my eyeballs. He takes me apart like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, day after day, night after night, and sometimes forgets to put me back, or just doesn't care enough. He looks me in the eyes and I do not dare to look away, the way he looks at me renders me incapable of looking away; and he pushes his way into my head as if I am resisting him but I'm not, and he rips the memories off my mind in a way only he knows how, and for that I love him. And I love him because I do not look away because I love him and he loves me because I do not look away because I love him, he loves me.

Scarecrow would have called it cosmic irony if he were here. But he is not here; hasn't been here for such a long time sometimes I forget he has ever been here, but he must have been at some point in time because I am here, and I still carry the scars he had left on my mind, and I once told him that the scars would outlive us both, and he laughed as if I was but a mortal fool but I was not, because I am here and he is not.

He has not been here for such a long time sometimes I wonder if he has ever been here, but he must have been because...

 _"It only hurts the first time; it only hurts; the first time only hurts; it hurts, and it will never stop hurting."_

...the residue of memories at the back of your throat where you once shoved a finger and forced yourself to throw up (If you can't heal them, kill them.) But the aftertaste lingers still, and it makes you want to be sick all over again.

 _How does it ever go away?_

Scarecrow would have called it self-pity and despised me for it if he were here (a genius, a survivor, my lover, a curse); but he is not here and for that I love him; and I love him because he is not here, and he would have never loved me if he were here now, but he is not here and I refuse to miss, I refuse to love, I refuse to hate him. I refuse to waste any emotion on him, when he is not here to care; when he does not care to be here.

But does it ever go away?

The world whirls in sweet madness and comes undone beneath the delusional gentleness of the Batman's touch as he grabs my throat every night and pushes me against the wall; his eyes like little circles of déjà vu expanding on the watery surface of my mind, as if I am halting the time when he tears into my skull for one last time just moments before I wake up and I press the rewind button to bring myself back to hear those cursed words from his cruel mouth time and time again...

 _Taste of your own medicine, Doctor?_

...so that I could remember why it hurt so much. So that I could remember those eyes, that jawline, and that voice rasping into my ears as the gloved hand tightened around my neck and squeezed hard, my breath caught and my precious sanity fleeting by...

I would know who you are. I would know. The moment I see you, I would know. There is nothing greater than a crow's revenge; even if I am only the 'scare' for now, I will take back my other half and then I will come for you.

* * *

Notes:

"It's not that I'm afraid of being hurt again: nothing again can either hurt or heal...and if that is all meaningless, I want to be cured of a craving for something I cannot find and of the shame of never finding it. Can you cure me?" - The Cocktail Party, T. S. Eliot


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

In which Crane has an epiphany.

* * *

Arkham wasn't a kind place - not by any stretch of the imagination; and especially not when you were at the receiving end of straitjackets, drug administration and shameless manhandling. Arguably, it was slightly less unforgiving now that the previous administrator had gone out of business. God, the awful things that man had done to those _poor_ , unsuspecting souls...but then it was even worse in a sense, seeing how that one and the same administrator was now the one standing, or rather, straitjacketed at the receiving end of the Asylum's horrendous treatments.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was sick and tired of his current situation. He was tired of faking insanity - granted he was insane, he had no illusions about that one - but he had to fake _looking_ insane so that they would keep him at Arkham. Not that he had any perverse sense of love and attachment to that one place that had witnessed him at his lowest, no. Arkham was one of the few places he knew how to escape from should the need arise. And the need would soon present itself, Crane was sure of that.

Today was another therapy session with Dr. Joan Leland. A professional, no-nonsense psychiatrist, almost too good for Arkham, definitely too good to a _supervillain_ such as Crane himself who once had no qualms about seeing to the complete destruction of Gotham, herself included; only that it wasn't true and Leland knew it. Crane must have told her during one of his most severe psychosis breakdown episodes before he had adjusted to his new medications as he had no recollection of the things he had told her then. But somehow she had ended up knowing about his motives behind the experiments, his encounters with Ra's al Ghul, and his childhood traumas. Though none of those revelations had been his conscious intentions at the time, he was almost satisfied with how things turned out between the two of them at the end. They now shared a sense of…camaraderie if he dared call it as such. And that kind of bond would definitely work in his favor, especially since he had no plan of remaining in Arkham for as long as they intended to keep him.

"You didn't sleep well, last night."

Her dark eyes bore into his feverish bright ones and Crane offered her a tired smile.

"When do I ever?"

He didn't have his glasses. Of course, he didn't. Inmates were forbidden to own anything made of glass or metal. He knew there were dark bags under his eyes he could almost feel their weight against his pale skin as they caved in and made his already large eyes appear more disproportionate to the other delicate features of his face. He knew the lanky dark hair plastered to his clammy forehead, the unguarded bright blue eyes and the slight trembles of his full lips made him look as unassuming and innocuous as a lost kitten. Though Dr. Leland knew that description was as far from the truth as it could get, she still fell victim to his charms every time he let her see him like this. You could just as well bring men down to their knees with those eyes of yours, she once told him with a slight humor to her voice that was a pleasing novelty all in its own right. Maybe next time, Doctor, he had said with a disarming mischievous glint in the said eyes and Leland had _smiled_ at him as if he wasn't criminally insane; as if he wasn't thousand levels deep in a hell of his own construct; as if she believed there was still some meager of hope left for his salvation. Oh yes, Crane, the genius psychiatrist that he was, knew all too well about the power of powerlessness, the strength in vulnerability, and he had no conflicting conscience to stop him from using it even on the people that _trusted_ him. Their own folly, really.

"Was it the same nightmare?"

Crane sunk a little into his chair, his handcuffed hands grabbing the armrests a little too painfully.

"Every single night, Joan. Every goddamn single night."

He sighed her name in a way that he knew had affected her, even if slightly so. He could almost taste her compassion on the tip of his own tongue. Crane was the only person in the whole asylum that could get away with calling Leland by her first name. Even the Joker had to endure hours of torturous therapy every time he would feel bored enough to play mind games with the doctor. Crane, though, had _privileges_. Courtesy of his impressive degree and intellect, but mostly perhaps because of his eyes. Leland had a _perfectly_ -concealed weakness for them.

"How about…the Scarecrow?"

Oh the Scarecrow. Even hearing his name made his heart clench with a throbbing sense of homesickness.

"Still subdued."

"Glad to hear the medication is still working."

The medication…was his own design. It was through sheer dumb luck that Leland was assigned to his case. She was probably the only therapist in this whole goddamn hellhole who knew enough of chemistry and psychopharmacology to realize what Crane, in his feverish delusional state was babbling about was not, in fact, mere delusional babblings but the ingredients to a drug that could possibly save him from any further descent into insanity. At the time he needed to keep his alter-ego in check in order to battle the severe effects of having been exposed to his fear toxin for too long. Although he really missed that part of him, he knew he was not ready for his return. His mind was still balancing precariously on the verge of total collapse and he needed to be as sane as he could be to stop that from happening. He just hoped the Scarecrow would understand and forgive him for the prolonged exile the Batman had forced Crane into imposing on him. The Batman would pay. Crane had no doubt about that.

"Were you expecting anything less from a psychopharmacologist extraordinaire?"

He let the corners of his lips rise in a playful grin as Leland continued staring at him as if on the lookout for straws to suddenly fall from his ears and out of the sleeves of his too-large jumpsuit.

"Oh Jonathan, you could have been a brilliant doctor, saving lives with your inventions instead of ruining them. You don't belong here, not that mind of yours."

She was referring to the chair Crane was strapped to; the whitewash walls of the asylum, the handcuffs that dug mercilessly into the delicate flesh of his wrists. Her dark eyes looked upon his in regret, probably the only person in Gotham to know the circumstances that had led such a brilliant mind to take a plunge into criminality.

"Joan…we both know no one's worth saving."

"But you are."

And she said that with such a conviction that Crane for just the briefest moment wanted to show her just how true that was. Only that it was not true, not in the sense that she was implying, and Crane did not feel generous enough to feed her sweet delusions.

It was then the door opened, without so much as a knock, and a voice that addressed Leland made Crane slightly turn around in his chair to look at the man that had just walked in.

Their eyes met; large electric blues and dark piercing browns. There was a moment of utter stillness, with the two men looking at one another in bewilderment. One certainly knew the other. The other was on the verge of a tremendous recognition. Those eyes, that jawline, the voice that had said 'Dr. Leland can I have a little of your ti-' before their owner had become aware of another presence in Leland's office and stared wide-eyed at the strapped villain who was looking at him with the same kind of consternation, if only slightly more suppressed and controlled.

Crane almost choked out Batman before stopping himself in time by sinking his teeth into his lower lip and drawing blood. His heart was beating like a wounded animal against his ribcage, he was at the verge of hyperventilating. God…it was him; the Bat Man. It was really him.

"Oh I'm sorry Dr. Leland I wasn't aware you had a patient I'll just come back…"

Leland stood from her chair and stopped him from making a hasty retreat out of the office.

"Please Mr. Wayne, it's ok. My session with Jonathan here has nearly finished. If you give me ten minutes I'll be seeing you next."

Wayne…Bruce Wayne; Gotham billionaire playboy, the business magnate, the philanthropist. Bruce Wayne was the Batman.

Crane could hardly breathe.

And Wayne…the Batman, was looking at him again. Looking at the mess he had made of that once brilliant doctor. Looking at the surprised blue eyes and the pale, pale complexion and the trembling lips. Crane had no doubt who he was looking at.

"Jonathan…are you ok?"

Leland was standing before him, a hand placed gently on his shoulder. It was then he realized he was wheezing and forced his breathing back to normal.

"I…I want to go back to my cell."

His mind was reeling. Leland nodded in approval and called up the security guards to take him back. When he walked past Wayne he did not look up, but the billionaire said his name and Crane stopped in his tracks.

"Dr. Crane?"

Crane looked up and regarded the conflicted face of Wayne under his drooping long eyelashes. He let a crazed smile appear on his lips and tilted his head to the side as he continued looking straight into those brown eyes that have never left his nightmares ever since that night.

"Dr. Crane is not here at the moment, but if you'd like to make an appointment…"

Wayne swallowed and averted his eyes but otherwise made no further comment. The guards then took Crane away. He felt those eyes burning holes into his back as he walked down the long corridor and into the elevator.

The Batman was Bruce Wayne.

Now the need to escape Arkham had finally arrived.


End file.
